


Phantasmagoria

by xuhei



Series: For When You Can't Sleep [6]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: F/M, about 2390421393 years too late though, dark au, monster au, yes v v v inspired by the monster mv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 23:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16417940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xuhei/pseuds/xuhei
Summary: “Do you have a boyfriend?”You shake your head as your heart begins to race again. There’s no chance at controlling it now. You have to live with it. The racing of your heart and the pounding of your head at such a simple question that has you acting like putty in Baekhyun’s hands.“Would you like one?” He questions.





	Phantasmagoria

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago as part of maybe a series and gave up. hope you like it xox

Perfection is hard to come across in people you see on the street. Perfection, as it is defined, means completeness and flawlessness – a near impossible subject to come across when on your way home and observing the passers who are doing the same thing as you are. 

As you see a lady walk by, her dark hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head, frown across her face due to the hate she’s developed for the landscape around her, eyes tried from the nine-to-five job she’s working to support her children, you know she’s not perfect. Her physical appearance has flaws, and her life has no drawn out completeness. 

In fact, she may be imperfection; incompleteness; uselessness; worthlessness. 

“Can I see your ticket, Miss?"  

You’re pulled from the world you were suffocating in, one drawn from the human standards of beauty and usefulness that lives to abide the laws we, as humans, have created. There’s a man in his forties standing above you ready to mark off your ticket and check you’re allowed to be here. He’s not perfect either. He’ll quit his job in a few months and never return to these train lines again because he hates it more than you hate the impossibility of knowing the future. 

Though his smile is fake, he’s not liking that you’re taking so long to produce a ticket. His foot taps ever so gently against the floor and his arms are crossed over his chest as he waits for you. For you to search your purse, for a panic to spread through your mind, and for your eyes to grow wide when you realise that the ticket you buy every day isn’t in your bag, nor your purse.  

"Miss, your ticket?” He repeats. He’s seen other people fail to produce tickets so you’re not sure why he’s standing above you with eyes that aren’t a touch sympathetic. You don’t even know where the receipt is to show you bought the ticket. You have nothing to give to him and he must realise this, because he’s pulling a phone out of his pocket and unlocking it as you stammer a reply. “Do you have a valid ticket for your travel today?”

You look up to him in the hopes that he will realise you’re not perfect, like everyone else. That you did have a ticket but you don’t know where it’s gone, and that you can travel on the train because you’ve purchased a ticket but you’ve lost it for some reason that you can’t explain. Your lips quiver slightly as your answer begins to fall from your lips. “I seem to have lost my ticket. I’m sorry. Give me a moment, I think it’s in my bag.”

“Miss, I need to see your ticket,” he tells you. His voice is like a broken record that you can’t stand to hear. 

He may have had better karma if he listened to you. That would be pointless, though — how many people have told him before that they’ve lost their ticket, and how many times has he believed them and been warned by his bosses that he shouldn’t do that if he wishes to keep his job?

“Give me a moment,” you answer softly, hoping to make him understand what position you’re in. You look down into your bag and try to find something. Anything that’s orange in colour and looks like a train ticket, you’re scrambling for it but getting nothing and you can see him looking at you from the corner of your eye. He’s waiting. He’s waiting for you to bring out a ticket and you can’t give him one. “Sorry, just hold on a second and I’ll have it for you.”

“Isn’t this your ticket?"  

You’re caught off-guard by the sound of another voice. One that’s a little darker, more masculine than your own. He has a slight accent that you don’t immediately pinpoint, and you’re drawn to them when you look up from your bag.

"It was on the floor,” he continues, hand holding out a ticket that, whilst you’re sure wasn’t your own to begin with, is one that you can claim as your own to save your skin since this ticket inspector isn’t leaving you any time soon. “Here, check it.”

You take the paper from the man. His dark hair— _ black hair _ —is parted just off centre. His eyes are equally dark and could draw you in from miles away, they could make you wish you didn’t look at him any longer because they were taking your soul away from you. It’s as though he’s possessed with the soul of a man who once brought heaven and hell closer to each other, amounting in earth becoming as messy as it now is, whilst his appearance matches that of a raven that many would avoid for one soul reason — they fear  _ him _ . 

His look alone makes your heart beat quicker, but nothing will beat the way your leg shakes in anticipation of what could happen. You’d have to thank him. To say to him a kind regard for saving you from fines and court cases and whatnot. You find yourself more keen to offer words to the man instead of paying attention to the train ticket. It goes to your stop, it’s the right day, so you pass it to the inspector without another word. “Yes, this is my ticket. Here you go.”

He’s moved on with his job before you can say another word; this inspector has spent too much time with you already to want to be here any longer. You’re costing him money, you’re costing him time. You’re costing him everything he’s losing so quickly without having his own say in the matter. Not that you really mind, you have something else that’s attracting your attention and you would much rather be facing that topic. 

“Thank you for finding my ticket,” you say softly, tapping the tips of your fingers on the plastic table as you look across the isle to where the dark haired boy is sitting. “I didn’t know I had dropped it.”

He looks up from his lap and straight to your eyes. Maybe he had been staring before, but you’re unsure. You could take a guess and say that no, this man wasn’t the staring type. He used his eyes to get things from people; their submission, their cooperation, their trust. After a few moments you expect him to speak, to say one thing to you that will keep you from looking away from him, but he just stares.  

Even when you catch him, when you look him back in the eye without hesitation or fear for what those eyes could hold, he never looks away from you. 

“I didn’t know it was your ticket,” he answers you plainly. 

You can wish for him to say more, but his eyes tell you a story of tiredness and spitefulness. As if he doesn’t want to be there with you. As if he hates the fact he’s stuck there with you on this train. As if talking to you is not on his agenda that’s properly aligned in telling him what to do every day of his life, making it complete and making him flawless. He’s achieving perfection and you’re in the way of it. 

“Thank you, anyway,” you tell him, tearing your gaze away from him so you can look back to the train window and focus on the people who don’t know you exist. 

Your eyes watch the passers by, but your eyes are locked on the reflection of the man behind you, who’s staring at you still. Eyes on you, gaze fixated on your figure that’s clear in his vision. You want to look back but you fear looking back will light a match that may just lead to your inevitable destruction from the inside out. 

“My name is Baekhyun,” he states, gaining your attention within a milli-second of speaking. He doesn’t move, not even a finger, and stares you down until you find it hard to conjure a reply. Telling him your name gives him control over you, like knowing a demon’s name gives you control over that demon. Except, Baekhyun had told you his name and you couldn’t wait to use it. 

To say it; to cry it; to even scream it if you had to.

Most of all, to whimper that name until everyone around you was sick on the two syllables that left your lips as though they were the two syllables in your own holy book, composed only for you to use and read from, all from Baekhyun himself. A creature of the night, one that was making you devoted to him before you even realised it. Obsession is often denied from those who are obsessed. 

“Baekhyun,” you repeat, index finger dragging over your bottom lip that tingles with the sound. Such illustrious thoughts are filling your mind at the thought of how many ways and times you could say that very word; that very name. “Where are you from?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, frowning slightly at your unexpected response. “Won’t you tell me your name?” 

"Would you like me to?” You ask him. Baekhyun nods, of course, letting his tongue run over his bottom lip and intensifying the deep red colour that was flush on his lips. You can only bear to look for a moment before you have to turn away. Only for a moment though, you miss Baekhyun’s stare within a second. “It’s (y/n).”

He repeats your name as though it needs to run through his mind. Once. Twice. A third time just for good luck and a prosperous future that lies between you both. Your breathing feels uneven and you have to calm it when he parts his lips to speak again. The question, this time, is not one you could have prepared for. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You shake your head as your heart begins to race again. There’s no chance at controlling it now. You have to live with it. The racing of your heart and the pounding of your head at such a simple question that has you acting like putty in Baekhyun’s hands. 

“Would you like one?” He questions.  

You’d have loved to answer. He stands up and leaves you as the train begins to grind to a halt before the next stop which is coincidentally his. You were so close to saying yes, but shouting it across the carriage was not something you particularly wanted to do. Instead, you watch Baekhyun as he steps off the train and leaves you on your own, the only company you have being the cold air that wraps around you in his place.  

Yes, you do. Yes, you want a boyfriend. Yes, you want Baekhyun, even if you don’t realise it right now.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I have twitter again! @maoyukhei
> 
> also shameless plug x3 if you've wanted a tarot reading https://www.fiverr.com/stellexerunt/read-your-future-with-tarot-cards


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